


Physicians and Philosophies

by whouffaldigarbage



Series: Physicians and Phonographs [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whouffaldigarbage/pseuds/whouffaldigarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second series of Physicians and Phonographs picks up three weeks where the first left off. The Doctor and Clara plan a trip to the English seaside. A powerful enemy from the Doctor's past reemerges to wreck havoc on his happiness and endanger those closest to him. The latest adventure forces the Doctor and Clara to reevaluate their relationship as something more than friendship as they combat jealous feelings, demons, and their own chaotic minds. </p><p>Monsters are not always so easily discerned, and morality is not black and white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome back! So begins the newest series of the Victorian AU. Hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> Huge shout-out to elloette for helping me come up with a title, and for being a swell beta :)

The slow and sad call of a mourning dove reached Clara through the open window and eased her out of her dreams. She became aware of soft, warm light on her face, and far in the distance she could hear an old church bell chiming without rhythm. She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, flexing and tensing her muscles to get feeling back into them after a long night’s rest, before slowly opening her eyes to greet the day.

She was in a spare bedroom of the Doctor’s London house, nestled tightly and without presumption in the city, tucked away between two larger buildings on either side. The room looked out back into his yard where a garden must have once bloomed. Now it looked rather brown and crippled due to the weather, but there were old sun dials and stone bird baths and sculptures and rusted metal contraptions and all sorts of strange things that made the small yard interesting to look at despite the lack of bloom.

The spare bedroom, which she hadn’t thought of as such for a while now, but simply thought of as Her room, was quaint and perfect for her size and needs. It was older, far different from the Gregson’s more modern estate; rather than lush carpet and elegant fittings of her old room, this one boasted creaking wooden floors and old furniture with character. There were area rugs about the room that didn’t match; a worn reddish one was beneath her bed, a faded black patterned one by the dresser, a dusty green one near the door; they all gave the impression of some interior gypsy caravan. Several bookcases were scattered about the room, each full to bursting with books of various age and coloring. A washbasin sat near the window, and several pieces of small art hung on the walls. A cute coal fireplace sat in the far corner, currently glowing faintly orange as it slowly died out. It was snug, it was haphazard, and it felt more like home than anything else Clara had ever experienced.

She rolled the heavy down quilt off of her legs and slipped her feet over the side of the bed and into her slippers before moving to the wash basin to splash water on her face. She smiled when her foot touched a board that groaned slightly on her way to the basin. Clara liked old things. It reminded her of her childhood, once having lived in a rickety old cottage that squeaked and moaned at the slightest touch.

As she pat her fact dry on the towel close at hand, she looked out into the yard through the open window. The air had been pleasant last night so she thought she could get away with the cool air of the outside throughout the evening, and between the light fire in the fireplace and the thick quilt, Clara had slept soundly, drinking in the crisp night air. Despite living in the heart of London, the sounds and smells never seemed to reach into the house, including the yard in the back. It was like a small oasis in the center of the bustling city, cacophonous with things to assault all of the senses. 

Judging by the height of the sun, it was only around nine in the morning. Clara had the whole day ahead of her—and oh did she need every moment.

She and the Doctor had shared living quarters for three weeks now. She had been discharged from the Gregson’s’ unceremoniously, and he’d generously (albeit sheepishly) offered to accommodate her until she found work and a new place to live. The trouble was; Clara liked living there, with him. The first few days she tiptoed around, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was there—she wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible to repay his kindness. He caught on immediately to her concern and set her at ease. He couldn’t possibly enjoy himself if she were in any way uncomfortable. He insisted that she treat his home as she would her natural home, and not be afraid to ask him for anything at all. His words helped, and not long after the two of them settled into a natural rhythm and it soon felt as though they’d lived together for years.

When Clara discovered the state of his kitchen, she barred him from ever cooking again. Besides the messy state it was in (dirt and grime two inches thick in places), the food options were meager and far from substantive. She truly had no idea how he had survived living on his own this long—what had he eaten? It was no wonder he was so thin. She cooked them meals because she liked to. He was so appalled at her drive to cook, he pleaded with her not to, telling her she wasn’t a maid and he didn’t want her to do any work while she was there, but she firmly insisted until he was entirely worn down. After he tasted her cooking, he didn’t need much more convincing. 

Clara spent a whole day cleaning the kitchen and when she’d finished it was spotless. She took over making the shopping list, and did the shopping for both of them. The Doctor always went with her like a child in the market with their mother. When she asked him why he felt the need to accompany her, he mumbled something about making sure she wouldn’t buy pears, but it felt like a flimsy excuse to tag along with her. As his arm healed, he could help carry most of the shopping, so she stopped questioning his companionship and instead became grateful for it, more than she secretly had been already.

It was a good thing Clara was around for the Doctor’s sake. His arm limited his ability to do almost anything at all. Clara liked taking care of him. She made him tea, cooked him meals, and fetched him things that he was too proud to ask for. At night she read to him when she saw the pain on his face grow worse, and it seemed to soothe him more than any medicine. She adopted the duty of care he displayed for her. She played doctor and she enjoyed caring for him. 

There was such an ease between the two of them. She never felt self-conscious about what she said or did with him, nor did she feel nervous or unsure about him as she had in the past. The mystery was gone, for the most part. He’d come out of his shell and revealed himself to be vulnerable and a man. It was honest and it was beautiful and she felt closer to him for it. He in turn answered any question she had—and she had many—about the unknown, about monsters and fairytales. It fascinated and frightened her, and she adored it. She’d seen it with her own eyes, the supernatural, and now she was addicted to learning about the nightmares that really were.

The Doctor seemed preoccupied at times. He seemed to be well-versed in non-sequiturs, as though his mind was always whirring like some manic machine. One night over dinner out of the blue he had asked her how she’d found him originally.

“The cabbie took Teddy and me to you,” she answered.

He pursed his lips in thought. “How did he know of me?”

“I...don’t know.” 

She had watched his face darken slightly, but in an instant he was smiling again and asking her about whether or not she’d heard of some Russian author. 

Clara dressed that morning in a simple green cotton dress and tied an apron about her waist. She left her room rolling her sleeves up past her elbows and tucking her hair back with a cloth triangle to keep it out of her face. She had a rather large plan for that day and it involved getting a bit messy.

As she made her way to the steps, soft violin music met her ears from his room another story above. She cocked her head and looked to the ceiling, resolving to question him as to when he woke up later that day. He had been doing better about getting sleep since she’d been there. Mostly because she forced him to sleep and chided him when she heard him up and about late at night restless with insomnia. Several nights when Clara heard him pacing downstairs at ungodly hours, she would pull herself out of bed and make tea for the two of them, keeping him company until his nerves calmed down. Sometimes it would take hours and they would be up as the sun crept above the horizon, but she made sure he was asleep or at least entirely calm before she would retire again to bed. She knew he had nightmares, and she knew his anxieties would often get the better of him, but he was doing better, now that she was there.

Clara descended and made her way to the kitchen to fix breakfast for them now that he was awake. She cracked four eggs in a pan, added a large slice of ham beside it, and cooked it all together while she toasted bread in the oven. She sliced a tomato and placed everything on two plates for them. Drying her hands on her apron, she went to the kitchen doorway and called up the steps that breakfast was ready. She heard the violin cease and knew he would be on his way shortly. Sure enough, she heard his steps on the creaking stairs and he appeared in the kitchen in a white shirt, an open black vest, black trousers, and stockings. His hair, as always, was a chaos of tousled silver curls. She noted that the dark circles under his eyes were extraordinarily pale, a sign he had indeed slept that night, and the thought relieved her. 

“Sleep well?” she asked as she handed him a knife and fork which he took.

“Better.” He nodded. “I’m getting better at it.”

“Who knew sleep was a skill, eh?”

“I was a champion napper before I met you. I won awards.”

She sighed as she sat at the small kitchen table with her own knife and fork. He settled down in the rickety chair across from her. “I read more of Maupassant last night.” She smiled as she started to tuck in. His face lit up.

“And?”

The Doctor had made it clear every book in the house was hers to read. Naturally he had recommendations, which she pored over eagerly, but she equally delighted in his collections of authors she’d read and loved in passing, and wanted to revisit or discover new works. The vast collection of books was nearly overwhelming, but Clara was in veritable heaven. She was averaging four books a week, at the least, and her devouring of text seemed to delight the Doctor.

Their meal consisted of discussing the minute details of the milieu of short stories of Maupassant she’d read so far. The two sat in the kitchen, a gentleman and a former governess, across a small and ancient wooden table, eating a meager breakfast, smiling and laughing without a care in all the world. There was some addictive intellectual spark between them. When they were discussing things like music or literature, Clara felt intensely happy, and when they weren’t, she was looking forward to their next conversation with little contained enthusiasm. The way his eyes sparkled as they talked, the way they crinkled around the edges when he smiled at her, how he nodded and frowned with interest as she brought up something he hadn’t thought of before—everything made her happy. To speak with someone on a cursory level was to see them. To speak with someone intellectually was to know them.

She sighed as she knew the conversation that morning would have to be shortened. “That reminds me,” she said, finishing her meal. “You’re not allowed in the library today.”

The library was what she’d begun calling Their room, with his wingback chair and the settee where the walls were packed with books. She couldn’t think of a better term for it—sitting room seemed to formal, and library seemed to fit, despite the fact that every room in the house contained books. He raised his eyebrows at her. “And why, pray tell, am I forbidden?”

She rose and took her plate to the sink to wash later. “Because it needs a proper dusting and a thorough tidying, like the rest of the rooms I’ve done.”

“I don’t want you to go to all that trouble—”

“It’s not about you, daft man; I spend quite a bit of time in there and I’d like it to be clean.” She put her hands on her hips. “That means no going in there while I’m working, right?”

He dug a thumbnail into a groove of the wooden tabletop like a glum child. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“But—”

She held up a finger which silenced him. He conceded but not without an irksome twitch of an eyebrow. Clara smiled and left to her task. She had lied to him, but only a bit. It wasn’t all for her. It was for him, too. Bit by bit, she was breathing life into the house, and into him. It was like some sort of archeological dig; she had to keep brushing away the dust and years to uncover what she sought. The trouble was, Clara wasn’t sure what she was looking for; she only wanted him to be happy. She felt he deserved it. And she would be wrong if she said she didn’t enjoy it. The thought of being domestic never appealed to her, but there was something so cathartic about going into a room and cleaning it from top to bottom until it looked new again. 

The Doctor, upon seeing her cleaning rampage over the past several weeks, had started to adopt the same habits as best as he could as his arm healed. He would unpromptedly tidy up after himself and straighten things here and there. At first she thought it was to avoid being sternly spoken to by her, but she began to realize he was doing it because he wanted to. He was becoming aware of his state of living, like a man waking up from a hundred years’ slumber and seeing the world around him for the first time with mild horror and shock. One afternoon she caught him disposing of piles of old newspapers that had accumulated in the music room. Another morning she’d found him opening the heavy curtains in every room to let the light in for the first time in years. She hadn’t seen him in a wrinkled shirt or with ink stains on his fingers in two weeks.

She’d put off doing over the library, as it was the most familiar room in the house to her. It was where the two spent most of their first remembered moments together, and where they had since spent the majority of their time. It felt like an old friend, and she had been hesitant about altering it in any way, but the rest of the house had been cleaned and it was the only room left, except, of course, for his study. She felt that room was his, and he liked the haphazard piles of paper and medical supplies, the dust and the gloom. To go within and clean it would be to enter his mind and rearrange his way of thinking. She didn’t want that.

By noontime, the Doctor poked his head into the room that looked more messy than ever as she went about cleaning it, to tell her he’d stepped out to the local delicatessen and had brought them sandwiches for lunch. By the afternoon the room looked habitable, and by evening it looked positively new and clean. The stacks of books piled against the walls haphazardly had found their shelves. The floor was swept, every bookshelf and surface had been dusted, and overall it resembled a library after all. The Doctor was a bit tentative about entering, it being almost unrecognizable without a thick layer of dust on everything, but she could see the appreciation on his face as he took it in. It was still warm with the glow of the fire, and books lined the walls. Clara couldn’t bring herself to put away the stack of books that had formed a table over which the two of them had shared their first meal together, so it sat next to his wingback before the fire as a sort of quirky end table.

After a light dinner the two retired to the spruced up library and read respectively by the fire. They moved another wingback chair into the room for her, so they could each sit comfortably by the fire together, the stack of books between them as a place to put their teacups, the stool before them as a shared footrest. She held rather a bit of affection for the old thing; the Doctor had used it as a chair after giving her his wingback that first night they had shared together after Teddy’s operation. It had been exceptionally kind of him, and whenever she looked the stool, she remembered their early conversations about literature and music, the way she felt excitement ripple through her and how his eyes danced in the firelight as they spoke animatedly about their passions. It was the first time in her life she felt that she could speak to a person without feeling judged in any way. She still felt that way with him, but luckily now it was every day.

. When the clock struck eight, the Doctor suddenly snapped his book shut and announced, “Let’s go someplace.”

Clara looked up from her book. “Someplace where?”

“North. Or east. Possibly south.”

“What about west?” she added jokingly.

“We could go west, would you like to go west?”

“Doctor,” Clara laughed. “What’s all this about?”

“A trip!” he cried. “I want us to travel somewhere new. By train, it has to be by train, those are where the best adventures start. We could climb rocks in Scotland or climb rocks in Wales—have you climbed rocks in Wales?”

Clara placed the marker in the book and shut it, finally giving him her full attention. “Climbing rocks? There are rocks in London you can climb.”

He waved his hand in the air. “Adventure! The ocean! Oh yes, let’s go to the seaside.”

“This time of year?”

“Certainly—no tourists.”

She tilted her head in acknowledgement of his words, “Suppose that’s true.”

He leaned over his armrest towards her, eyebrows raised, biting his lower lip hopefully. “Would you like to go?”

“Certainly,” she smiled, holding back from saying anything more that might sound like ‘I would go anywhere with you’. 

“Grand!” he beamed. “We’ll leave tomorrow!”

“Doctor—leave where? Go where? What’s all this about?”

His elegant fingers fidgeted in the air. “I’ve been cooped up too long. London is stifling. I want to travel again, like I used to. And I want you to see the world with me.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve never been surer in my life. My arm is healed enough, and I’ve got a wicked case of cabin fever.”

“Then it settled.” Clara supposed. “We’ll need a timetable, if we want to leave tomorrow.”

He held up a gleeful finger and bounded out of his chair. He left the room and returned in a span of seconds holding a folded newspaper, which he handed to her. It was turned to the page listing all of the times of departures at the London station for the next day. Clara felt giddy the longer she held the paper and looked at it—it made the prospect real. “Here’s one leaving tomorrow at nine for Salcombe in Devon. We would get there by late afternoon.”

“Devon!” he mused as he crossed to the hearth, wringing his hands. “I haven’t been to Devon in years. Have you ever been?”

She shook her head. “I hear it’s beautiful.”

“Pack your bags, Oswald,” he grinned, eyes twinkling. “We’re going to Devon.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“So I’ll pack tomorrow.”

He sighed and threw his hands up. “Well now you’ve ruined my dramatic moment. Thank you very much for that.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Sorry.”

He shot her a comical long-suffering face. Clara cocked her head as she looked past him at the old framed map resting atop the mantle behind him. In his past he had seen the world. He’d punished himself for over a decade by not stepping a foot outside of his home, and now he wanted to explore again. With her. She smiled to herself as she, with all humility, realized her presence made him brave. She was helping him return to himself. And in turn, he was helping her discover herself. Since she’d moved in with him, she had felt unfettered by everything that had previously held her down. She was allowed to be herself and breathe—she was answerable to no one and did and said what she liked. They were like flowers blooming beside one another within the shared dead brambles of their past lives. Two souls blossoming in the decay of fall, despite the world around them withering away for the season.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clara and the Doctor travel by train and receive some rather unsettling news in regard to their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for your patience! This was the semester from hell, but exams are finished and I'm back!

Clara stood impatiently by the door, as she had done for the past ten minutes, in fact. Her carpet bag sat by her feet and she had been dressed and ready most of the morning. It turned out the Doctor was very fussy about his appearance after all, or when it pertained to going abroad, in any case. She had heard him in his room above hers packing—if that was the proper word for it—which seemed to involve a multitude of frustrated Scottish swearing, fumbling about, rummaging, discarding, and flopping down on the bed exasperatedly in intervals of seven minutes. She’d offered her help, of course, but he’d taken mild affront and so Clara had been banished downstairs to wait for him. He’d promised her twenty minutes ago he’d be ready in ten minutes. That was another thing Clara noticed about the Doctor—he didn’t seem to have a secure grasp of time. Five minutes to him could mean two minutes or thirty-five minutes to her, and there was no way to gauge it. His perceptions of time seemed to change by the minute, and considering the minutes were in his time—it was all very confusing.

Normally being prompt wouldn’t bother Clara terribly, but that morning they were due to meet the nine am train, and it was twenty minutes of as it was. They barely had the time needed to get to the station, let alone purchase their tickets and board. She drummed her fingers against one of her crossed arms and craned her neck to look up the stairs to the floors above. “Doctor, if you’re not down here in ten seconds I’ll come up there and strangle you!”

After a moment, his head nonchalantly appeared over the railing two floors up, “Don’t be daft. With those tiny hands of yours you’d be lucky if you could strangle a limp noodle.”

“Doctor!”

“What?”

“Here. Now. Train. Remember?”

His head disappeared from the railing and she saw one of his hands flap dismissively before it too disappeared. “I’m coming, no need to be cross.”

She was about to let fly a slew of incredulous phrases but she heard him stepping down the stairs and within a few seconds she saw him dismount the steps before her, suitcase in hand. His choice in clothing startled her, and she covered her smile with a hand.

“Tweed.” He said cautiously watching her reaction. “It’s required for train travel.”

“Who told you that?”

“I thought it was a law. Every gentleman pictured on trains wears tweed.”

Clara bit her lip and looked up and down. She’d never seen him in tweed, or any color, really, other than black, white, and the occasional red smoking jacket. He looked like some disgruntled professor in his brown scratchy suit, white shirt, and crimson vest. He wore deep mahogany oxfords and red socks that matched his vest as though he were trying to make some sort of unguided fashion statement. Clara didn’t know they made red socks. To top off the thoroughly grouchy professor-look, his hair was more rumpled than usual, perhaps from that morning’s harrowing packing experience. She sighed resignedly before stepping close to him until they were nearly flush up against one another, reaching up and smoothing down his wild hair. She noticed he inhaled sharply and tensed when she drew so close to him, but the reaction was short-lived, once he realized she was fussing with his hair he relaxed a bit, like a stray cat being stroked for the first time.

“Why don’t you have a mirror in the house, hm?” she asked, running her fingers through the thick curls to tame them with one hand and tucking the hair at one of his temples in place with the other.

“What?” he asked dumbly after a moment, watching her face as she worked.

“Mirrors.” repeated Clara. “You haven’t a single one in the whole house. It’s no wonder you look like a mess half the time.”

“I have a mirror.”

“That small shaving mirror in the washroom doesn’t count. Trust me, I know. Been trying to do my hair this whole time using only that…”

Clara ran her fingertips slowly along his hairline to brush away any strays. His hair felt so soft beneath her touch, yet coarse and substantive. She noticed his large eyes were locked onto hers as she pulled her hands away, satisfied with his newly groomed hair. She realized how close they truly were. Her chest brushed his, the front of her dress encompassed his legs, and up until this moment she’d no idea how long his eyelashes were. She felt her breath catch. She blinked, he blinked, and the spell was over. Clara took a step back and brushed the front of her dress in an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks.

“I don’t like them.”

She looked up. “Beg pardon?”

“Mirrors.” He cocked his head as he watched her, for that’s what he was doing—he was studying her face as he spoke. “I look at them, and they all seem broken.”

She picked up her carpet bag. “In what way?”

“Cracks, all over. I don’t like it.”

Now it was her turn to cock her head and study him. What cracks could he be referring to? Did he not like his appearance? “Well, perhaps we ought to invest in one, for your hair’s sake if nothing else. Now, are you ready?”

He rolled his eyes, “I’ve been ready for hours. We’re going to miss the train at this rate.”

Clara shot him a dangerous look and the joke faded like a swift sunset across his face. He cleared his throat and opened the door, offered her his arm, and the two descended into the London street, bags in hand.

 

The train awaited them on the platform. Steam poured around it and bells clanged as it prepared to depart. They madly dashed to the ticket counter where an older fellow with a heavy mustache stared at them with disinterest.

“Tickets.” The Doctor panted, resting his long fingers on the edge of the counter as he doubled over in an attempt to catch his breath. They’d originally gone to the wrong platform and, as late as they were already, had to run at top speed across the station so as not to lose what little time they had left. The wild sprint had left them both mildly disheveled and out of breath, and although Clara saw that her work on his hair had been all but destroyed in the run, she couldn’t help think that the unruly and wind-swept look of his greying curls was rakish and handsome, compared to the oil-slicked hair of the men around them.

“Where are you headed?” the man behind the ticket booth queried, sensationally bored.

The Doctor had risen from his doubled over state and drew his eyebrows together, gesturing wildly to the train behind them about to depart. “That one! Devon!”

“And how many tickets will you be purchasing?”

The Doctor looked to Clara and then behind them to the vacant platform before turning back with a stare that seemed to ask whether or not the man behind the counter was in his right mind. “Two.”

“And what class will you be traveling in?”

If smoke could exude from one’s ears, Clara was sure it would from the Doctor’s at that moment. He cast a swift glance behind them to the train gearing up to take off and back to the attendant. “Any class, just please—”

“Any luggage?”

The Doctor raised his suitcase and glared, then gestured to Clara’s carpet bag.

“Under what name?”

“Oswald,” Clara deftly maneuvered into the conversation before the Doctor became flustered. She smiled at the attendant, “Two for Oswald, please.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Oswald.” The attendant repeated as he scribbled and stamped on a pad. Clara and the Doctor shared a quiet conspiratorial look with one another before the man handed them two tickets in exchange for the bills the Doctor provided. They took them just as the train behind them began to rock and jolt into motion. The Doctor seized her hand and the two of them ran towards the train slowly leaving the platform. He ran alongside it as he helped her board, then grabbed the railing and hoisted himself up beside her. The two of them collapsed against the wall in relief, just as the conductor came round to take their tickets and show them to their compartment.

Their compartment was tiny and just their size. Two cushioned bench seats, a window in the middle, and a door to enter. After storing their luggage in the rack above (Clara conceded the Doctor could have made less of a dramatic show of his height in comparison to hers as he did so), the two of them stretched out on their respective benches to rest their tightly wound muscles from the stressful morning. Clara turned to see him and laughed at his long legs and torso attempting to maneuver into a horizontal position on the bench that was a foot and a half too short for him to stretch out. He turned his eyebrows on her. “We should have gotten the one with the beds. This is intolerable.”

Although Clara knew his intention in his phrase, she couldn’t help feeling the heat rise in her cheeks at the thought of the two of them sharing a room and a bed, train-sized and small, bodies close, bed snug…

“Clara,”

“Yes? What?” she over-compensated attentively.

“Do they do the room service bit here?”

“This isn’t a night train, you know. We’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Yes but I demand servicing. Namely the food manner of servicing.”

“There’s a dining car for that.”

“We have to go to a whole new car? Ludicrous. I shan’t.”

“Then you won’t get any food.”

“If they can put the food in one car surely they can bring it into this one. Why’s your face gone red?”

Clara was still trying to get the mental image of being in bed with the Doctor out of her brain and was only partially paying attention to the conversation. She blinked and met the eyes of the man she’d only just a moment ago been picturing lounging beneath white sheets giving her a ‘come-hither’ look. “What?”

“Your face is all reddish. Are you well?”

“Oh, yes—yes I’m fine. Talking of food made me realize I was hungry.”

The Doctor didn’t care for that one bit. He was always so good about being sure her needs were met, that she wasn’t surprised in the least when he had taken her hand and led them seemingly arbitrarily through the cars to find the dining car to sate her hunger, feigned or no. 

Once they’d found the car, they claimed a primly pressed table with a white table cloth and a dainty vase containing three small flowers. The china on the table was expensive to look at, and Clara scrunched her nose at it. The Doctor, on the other hand, was eyeing the other passengers of the dining car with interest. He wasn’t watching them nervously, as he had with people in the past, but rather with curiosity, studying them as though they were artifacts in a museum. 

“That one’s not wearing tweed.” He noticed self-consciously, staring at a man in a casual suit and bowler. “Clara, why isn’t that man wearing tweed?”

A waiter arrived and handed them two crisp menus before flitting off again. “Tweed and trains is some rule you made up on your own, daft man.”

He hid behind his menu in chagrin, mumbling something to the contrary.

The rest of the meal went by without incident. The Doctor had to remark on every article of food on his plate, however, saying it was far too small. When he grew tired of criticizing his own plate he turned to Clara’s and began taunting her petite steak. Clara was forced to poke his hand with her fork to keep him from picking up her tiny broccoli tufts and examining them in the light.

As they were sipping their after meal coffee, an older couple at an adjacent table struck up a conversation with them, as one is want to do on a train. They were amiable, until Clara told them they were headed to seaside town of Salcombe, Devon, at which they bristled considerable.

“Why go there when there are plenty of other lovely beaches, considering.” The older gentleman inquired.

“Considering?” the Doctor echoed, who had previously not said much in the prior conversation. 

“Why, the attacks of course.” The woman replied, eyes wide. “Surely you’ve heard?”

“Attacks?” The Doctor echoed once more, his eyes sliding to meet Clara’s momentarily before turning with fierce interest back to the woman and gentleman.

The older couple shared a look before the gentleman began patting down his jacket looking for something. The woman continued, “Two people have died from some sort of animal attack in the past month.”

The gentleman found what he was looking for by pulling out a folded newspaper from his inner jacket pocket. He opened it, turned two pages, refolded it, and handed it to the Doctor. “There’s an article about it. The second one happened just last week.”

Clara watched the Doctor read the article in earnest, his eyebrows knitting together the further down the page he got. “You said it was some kind of animal?” Clara asked, feeling her breath quicken.

The woman nodded, and the man spoke, “The victims were—pardon me, madam, I shouldn’t speak of such details in front of a lady.”

Clara shrugged. “I’m no lady. You’d be surprised what I can handle.” She added, sharing a knowing look with the Doctor, whose lips twitched in a secret smile.

“Well then,” the gentleman continued, “the victims are entirely unrecognizable. The bite marks are bigger than a bear and more savage than a wolf.”

“Devon isn’t known for bears or wolves.” The Doctor interjected.

“Precisely—so what could it be?” the woman nodded.

A frown creased the Doctor’s face. “Murder?”

The gentleman shook his head. “It was an animal. You read the article yourself.”

The Doctor only pursed his lips and twirled his thumbs in thought.

“Do you not think it safe to stay there?” Clara asked.

“I wouldn’t.” the man snorted. “Or if I did stay, I’d do well to stay indoors. You never know what’s out there.”

Clara and the Doctor shared a poignant look before excusing themselves back to their cabin. As soon as Clara shut the door behind them she turned to face the Doctor, who was currently attempting to pace in the small space, his hands fumbling with each other, a familiar deep crease forming above his nose. “Doctor,” he raised his eyebrows slightly, but that was the only sign of recognition as he continued to move about like a bee behind a windowpane. “Doctor, what is it? Is it those ghost monsters again?”

He made a face. “Highly unlikely.”

“Well then what?”

“Could be a stray dog.”

She grabbed his arm and held him still, forcing him to look at her. “You’re lying.”

“Clara—”

“I told you before to never do that to me again. You promised.” Her eyes searched his for the vow echoed there. He stared at her, and his face softened after a time, like daybreak after a moonless night.

“That I did.” He replied firmly. The slight wince that passed in a blink across his face did not go unnoticed by her, and she knew he was remembering the danger and fear he’d last left her in by not telling her the truth. He’d almost lost her. He gently took her elbow and guided her to the bench seat opposite him, and the two sat, heads bent together across the space.

“What is it, then?” she breathed, her curiosity rivaling her anxiety.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Am I expected to know everything that concerns strange murders and mutilations?”

She blinked at him. “Yes, you are.” He wrinkled his nose in response. “Doctor, not telling me isn’t some loophole out of not lying to me. You’re still holding back. Tell me.”

His shoulders heaved. “Honestly, Clara, I haven’t the slightest idea. It could be a stray dog. It could also be some nefarious creature with an equally nefarious, supernatural purpose. We’ve only got that couple’s story to go by—hearsay. In all likelihood it’s just an animal, but rumors spread, and the press blows it out of proportion and you’re left with Fluffy the werewolf.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “Werewolf?”

“Have you listened to anything I just said?” he agitated. “Normality is in the realm of possibility here.”

“You and normality aren’t compatible. You’re like water and oil. Or fire and water.”

“What if the oil is in the water and then set on fire, hm? It’s possible.”

“Possible, yes, but highly unlikely.”

“Clara,” he looked long and hard at her. “You’re scared, and rightly so, the way those two told that story. But please, let’s not worry. There’s nothing to fret about.”

How profoundly wrong he was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your 6 month-long patience :) Life happened. I am back!

Devon was grey with fog. When they’d left the train and stepped onto the platform, charcoal smoke mingled with the thick mist and curled around their legs like fetters. They hadn’t the foresight to write ahead and find a place to stay, so the pair made their way to the coast and walked along the empty main street together. Clara’s eyes were wide with wonder, despite the overcast skies and unseasonable beach weather. She looked in the shop windows and marveled at the curiosities found there; she craned her neck to look up at the second story architecture of the seaside town; but most of all, Clara gazed out at the ocean. The salt in the cold air stung her cheeks, and the view was one she’d never seen before. She was in awe.

“Feel it? In your lungs?” the Doctor said as he sniffed mightily. Clara matched his robust sniff with a dainty one of her own. Sea and ice and smoke and fish and mildewed ropes and fireplaces and rain and train smog. Clara coughed. “That’s the spirit.” The Doctor rejoined, holding his arms out to the town before them as though readying himself to embrace the entire thing, or perhaps absorb it into himself. Clara watched him and a smile quietly curled on her lips. He was out of his house. His hermit life was behind him now. He was out and about with adventure in his heart. His eyes were like that of a child’s.

“Shall we go for a swim?” his non-sequitur reached her through her contemplations. She shivered and looked at him aghast.

“Doctor, it’s cold. And the sun will be setting before long, and…” Clara wanted to bring up the fact that neither of them had brought bathing attire, but that only caused her to imagine the Doctor in said bathing attire, and her face began flushing terribly again. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Valid points.” He agreed. “Tomorrow then. Ooh, there’s an Inn!” and he was off towards a building situated on an outcropping of the seaside town overlooking the ocean. Clara could only follow. He had almost approached the door of said establishment when her eye caught a poster plastered to a brick wall of a private residence alongside. She paused and stared at it—the headline was in sharp black lettering, ‘ANOTHER GHASTLY MURDER’, below which was an inky depiction of some large monster. She thought about what the couple in the dining car had gossiped with them about, a beast in town on the prowl. Clara looked at the artistic rendering of the monster. Clearly it was only meant to be frightening and catch the eye of whomsoever might have passed by. It was exaggerated, half bear, half wolf, half something else. She didn’t know what to make of it, or what to feel. A cold wind buffeted her towards the Doctor and the Inn, and she continued on.

A small bell chimed when the Doctor opened the door and the two entered into a warm and cozy sitting room. Plush pink chairs encircled a coal fireplace along one wall, tables were laid out with doilies for taking tea, a cabinet of flowery porcelain sat in one corner, and the walls were neatly wallpapered in pink gardenias. A spindly desk sat beside them, currently vacant, adorned with two vases of magenta hothouse blooms.

Clara peered up at the Doctor, who had wrinkled his nose as he looked around the positively garish decoration. “We could try somewhere else.” he offered.

“I didn’t see anything open, did you?”

“It’s just so…” he frowned as his eyes skeptically rolled around beneath his hefty eyebrows, “…pink.”

“What did you expect from a place called the ‘Star-Crossed Honeymoon Inn’?” Clara nearly gagged saying the saccharine title. The Doctor shot her an incredulous look.

“It is not called that.”

“It is so.” Clara gestured to the notepaper on the desk, bearing the moniker. The Doctor visibly recoiled.

“Surely there’s got to be some other place open—”

“Even the bakeries were closed. It’s off-season, remember?”

“But—”

Just then a young woman in a black dress and white apron appeared behind the desk from a curtain behind it leading to the rest of the establishment. “Hello,” her voice was soft and sultry, “Welcome, you would like a room?”

“Depends, do the rooms look like this?”

Clara elbowed the Doctor in the ribs and stopped him from saying anything further. “Do you have any available?”

“We do—would you like a suite? We have a lovely one that overlooks the seaside.”

Clara felt her face flush. Of course—what other conclusion could the maid have gathered? “Oh—we would be needing two rooms, I think.” She stammered. “We’re not—”

“Her and I are only—” The Doctor and Clara were both frantically gesturing trying to divine a definition of their relationship in the air between them.

“Relations?” the young maid tried.

“No!” both Clara and the Doctor objected forcefully together. The Doctor went on explaining to the maid that they would need two separate rooms in as few words as possible, avoiding any defining terms as Clara wondered why they’d both refused the idea that they were blood relations with such vigor. The maid was checking a ledger when Clara looked up from her thoughts that had left her cheeks redder than they had been a moment ago.

“We have two rooms available,” the maid remarked, “they’re larger of course, meant for couples, but you could rent them both out, if you’d like.”

“May I ask the color of them--?”

“It’s fine,” Clara interjected. “We’ll take them.”

The maid smiled, noted something down in her book, and selected two keys off of the wall to left. When she turned back, she handed one key to the Doctor, and Clara didn’t like the way she held his gaze beneath her thick lashes, or the way her hand lingered on the key after he took it for a second too long. Apparently the Doctor being unattached was all the maid needed to positively throw herself at him. Luckily, the Doctor being the Doctor, seemed to take no notice of the young maid’s apparent interest. 

Often, Clara would consider herself introspective. Normally, she enjoyed analyzing situations and her own emotions. On some other occasion, she may have wondered at the fact that she even noticed this interaction between the maid and the Doctor. She may have thought about why she felt anger lurking on the periphery of her being. Clara may also have tried deciphering that the anger was actually jealousy. Unfortunately, Clara was not in a state of mind to think about any of these things. She only felt what she felt, and didn’t notice she was glaring at the maid.

“I’ll show you to your rooms.” The maid smiled as she moved out from behind the desk and towards a doorway leading to a stairwell on the opposite wall. “The Inn Keeper is out right now, normally this is her role. I’m the maid,” she turned back to look at the Doctor, “You can call me Cora. I keep things tidy and can fetch anything you need.” She led them to a second floor hallway with two doors on either side and a window at the end overlooking the ocean. “Your quarters are here,” she said to Clara, gesturing to a door on her right. “And yours,” she smiled to the Doctor and reached across him, turning the handle of the door beside him and opening it, “are here. Just above my own.” 

“Thank you,” Clara said drily. “That will be all.”

The maid smiled at the Doctor before sidling past him and back down the stairs, Clara glaring at her the whole way.

The Doctor’s voice sounded from within his room, which he had already begun to explore “Damn it, Clara, my room is violet.” Clara ripped her furrowed brows from the stairwell and turned to poke her head in. He was right—and it was hideous. The Doctor was very distressed about it. 

“You could switch rooms, but then you wouldn’t be right above the maid.” Clara responded unsympathetically.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. She seems eager to please, that’s all.”

“Yes, she was nice.”

“I’ll say.”

“What was that?”

Clara left his room and went to look at her own across the hall, muttering something very unladylike under her breath. As she entered, she could still hear him remarking on the various purple atrocities found in his new quarters.

Her room was equally untasteful. Well, perhaps tasteful to someone who enjoyed fluff and pomp and frills and lace and magenta. Clara was not that person. The wall opposite her from the door had a large window and window seat overlooking the side of the town they had just walked through. To her left sat a wardrobe bedecked with hothouse flowers and a vanity table with an old mirror. Opposite that was a very large bed with a painfully rich purple bedspread that looked to be packed with the down of at least seven hundred geese. The pillows were equally grotesque in plumpness. The walls were hung with parlor pictures behind glass in carved frames. A small coal fireplace was nestled in the corner beside the bed. Clara approached the bed and placed her carpet bag upon it, surveying her flowery surroundings.

“Clara,” the Doctor’s voice approached her and she turned. He came into her room with an armful of rose petals. “These were in my room. Would you like them?”

Clara stared. “Why?”

He shuffled them a bit, several petals fell to the floor. “I imagine they were rubbish that maidy missed but I thought you might like them.”

“So you saw something you thought was rubbish and your first thought was of me?”

“Yes. They looked like something a person of your build, or rather…gender would like.”

“Where were they?”

“All over my bed.” He peered over her shoulder to her own bed. “Oh, you’ve got some, too.”

Clara turned and noticed her bed was strewn with rose petals as well. Her face flushed. “Doctor—”

“Well I don’t want them.” He emphasized and unloaded his armful of rose petals on her bed in a small pile. “Why would they just leave these things all over the beds? Bits of nature and such.”

“Doctor, it’s a….this is an Inn designed for newlyweds, I believe. Rose petals are, they’re a sign of beauty and…romance.” She felt her face go hot explaining it. The concept of newlyweds wasn’t taboo by any means, but the fact that she and the Doctor were there together, alone, was enough to embarrass her greatly.

“I know roses are romantic, but just the petals?” he retorted. “It’s romantic to rip off the petals and thus kill the flower? Yes, quite romantic, that, beheading some innocent thing and scattering it’s limbs and such all over a bed.”

Clara cradled her face in her hands as she stared at him It was amazing at times how very simple things or gestures seemed to escape him entirely. “Why must I have all of them, then?”

“Because they belong with you.”

“You said they’re rubbish.” She pointed out.

“I didn’t mean rubbish in that way, I meant, to me, they’re not useful, but you might appreciate them more.”

“And why is that?”

“Why is what?”

Clara watched him curiously. He was hedging, avoiding her eyes. An answer was hidden behind his teeth, and she wanted to know, so she continued to tease him. “Why did you think I would appreciate a pile of rubbish?”

“You said so yourself, they’re beautiful, you can appreciate that, can’t you?”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“Careful now.”

“Go on.” 

The Doctor’s fingers were fidgeting, he only did that when he was nervous or restless. “Look, I’ll take them back, if you don’t want them.” And he moved to do so. Clara stepped between him and the bed, the impish look still on her face.

“I never said I wouldn’t like them.”

“Your aggressive line of questioning suggests otherwise.”

“I only wanted to discover why when you saw rose petals your first thought was to give them to me, that’s all. You could have put them in the rubbish bin, but you didn’t.” she peered up at him. They were close, she could see her reflection in the whites of his eyes.

He pursed his lips and knit his brow, staring at a fixed spot behind her so as not to meet her gaze. “Flowers are nice to look upon.”

“Some flowers.” Clara agreed. That’s when he turned his eyes on her and their gaze met for the first time in their discussion.

“I thought you might like those particular pieces of flowers because you seem to appreciate that sort of thing. Broken bits of things that aren’t beautiful anymore. You find the beauty in them.” He blinked, “Had I known rose petals were a normal occurrence and a signifier of beauty I wouldn’t have brought them here.” He shrugged and walked out of the room, calling behind him, “It’s tea time, yes? We might try somewhere else in town. I’ve a feeling everything here would be fruity served in a china thimble.”

Clara watched him go, her breath caught in her throat. Finally, a very small, “Oh,” passed over her lips like a startled sigh.


End file.
